Royal Marriage Market (9 page)

I make the very poor mistake of focusing on his mouth as he says this to me. His lips are too perfect, shaped too much like those statues carved by the masters.

“Bloody hell, I don’t even know you,” he continues hotly. “Besides, you’re to inherit your throne. Why would you ever think I would
propose
to you? Narcissistic much?”

This is enough to tear my focus from his delicious mouth back up to his eyes. He’s outraged right now, in the middle of an elegant party, no longer attempting to hide behind required yet feigned civility. And this anger from him only piques my interest tenfold, because what kind of perfect man snarls at a woman in public?

Parker hisses in scandalized horror, “Your Highness!”

Apparently I am not the only royal with a language problem in public. Oddly, the similarity leaves me yearning to chortle.

Christian waves his secretary off as I battle to contain the grin desperate to tug my lips upward. No longer the paragon of perfection, not at least in temperament, I allow a few more charitable thoughts about this prince.

      
Unable to resist the perverse pleasure stemming from such repartee, I say smoothly, “You gave me a
look
. What else was I to think?”

My jab hits its bull’s-eye, because Christian’s eyes widen in comical dismay. “There was no look!” he barks.

Chortling, according to my mother, is vulgar and completely unattractive. It simply is not to be tolerated from the heir of the Vattenguldian throne. Nor am I allowed to laugh long and hard. I’m permitted polite, quiet mirth that is minimal at best. But goodness, if I don’t want to laugh right now in the face of such exasperation, especially when champagne physically spurts out of Parker’s nose.

Taking pity on Mr. Amused, I fetch a napkin from the buffet table. And still, I cannot help but volley another round. “There most definitely was a look.”

Christian invades my personal space. “By look, you mean a polite acknowledgement of strangers alone in a hallway. If there was a look, that was it. Nothing more!”

Hot damn, outrage is a delectable look on this man. Unbidden images of him, righteous in his convictions as he talks to the Aibolandian Parliament, taunt me until I curse my newly tingling lady parts.

Stupid lady parts. They never think logically.

I cannot be attracted to him. I
cannot
. Attraction at first sight is a fairy story, not reality. Enjoying banter is one thing, but discovering a physical attraction is entirely different. Therefore, I force the foulest memory I possess to the forefront of my mind, of when I discovered my father mid-coitus with someone other than my mother. His Serene Highness was as nude as the day he was born; worse yet, wiry hair sprouted from his surprisingly tan arse.

Appeased at the burgeoning urge to escape to the loo and vomit out what little bit of dinner I managed to consume without popping seams, I offer Christian a, “You may think that.”

But then my lady parts rally anew when a delightful flush steals up his neck. How is it possible that my father’s hairy arse cheeks are not enough to overcome this man’s charm? “As the looker,” Christian says, once more crowding my personal space, “I can verify it was the only intent possible.”

Hairy arse. Hairy
dimpled
arse. Hairy dimpled arse that rippled when (SHUDDER) my father shoved himself (SHUDDER) into that woman—from behind, no less. I force the scene to loop in my mind as my shoulders square, allowing myself a tiny, nauseated breath. “As I have no desire toward marrying anyone in this godforsaken place, let alone . . . doing anything else, such information is comforting.” And then, wholly unable to resist a bit of cheekiness, “
Capiche?
”

His mouth opens. It is a dangerous mouth that offers far too many promises. “Noted, madam.”

My father’s arse fails me for the first time.

I must be ill, perhaps even with the flu plaguing the Lichtenstein cousin. I am warm and dizzy and clearly not in the right frame of mind, because sharp delight over how this prince isn’t fawning surges through my bloodstream.

“Perhaps I ought to stress I have no desire in marrying anyone at the RMM, either, let alone . . . doing anything else.” He mimics my cadences. “Present company included.”

My mother would be utterly shamed, because I nearly burst out into genuine laughter. It arrives as a snort, but still. I quickly cover my mouth. Right before dinner, I overheard several ladies discussing what they would do to Prince Christian when, not if, they get him alone, and none of the suggestions were innocent. “Good luck with that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if you escape the Summit with your bachelorhood or virginity intact, it will be a miracle. Besides, protests aside, you know as well as I that none of us have any say in the matter anyway.”

He gapes at me once more. My lady parts find his astonishment adorable, which is intolerable. This man is a Hereditary Grand Duke. I am a Hereditary Princess. A match between the two of us is not an option, not even at the RMM. I must do something to shut this inappropriate attraction down once and for all. I inhale deeply and say, mentally cringing as I am patently aware of just how blatantly rude and awful this will sound, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

Gaping transitions to sputtering. Parker quickly excuses himself under the guise of finding more champagne.

Well, at least that makes one less person I must humiliate myself in front of, although I am certain the damage is long done. “It is all right if you are,” I continue.

Christian stands so close now we share the same, toasty air from nearby heat lamps. “I am thirty years old.”

I clearly overestimated him. Asking such a boorish question would send normal, polite folk running. But here this prince is, closer than ever, forcing me to desperately root around for another awful memory to combat his unwanted effect on me. Maybe that of Nils shagging my ex-BFF? It’s a nice, angry memory that serves me well in times of need. Only, every breath is filled with Christian, and stars in the sky are twinkling. and my head is swimming, and my bloody lady parts are dancing and crying all at once.

I need someone to shake some sense into me right now. Charlotte would gladly do so if present; perhaps Isabelle will stand in her stead? Because this prince is not meant to be mine. Ever. Not that I would ever want him and all his
too
-ness, anyway. What a hassle it would be, being with a man far more attractive than one’s self. Hell, he probably has a different woman for each day of the week. And that is not what I want or need. I would rather have nothing than something that isn’t true.

I despise how judgmental I am being. How much I’ve allowed an attraction to warp my thoughts. I must be ill. I must.

This is unacceptable.

I swallow hard and, pleased my voice is level, say, “There are plenty of thirty-year old virgins. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

His head dips toward mine; dark, wavy hair falls into his eyes and all I can do is watch in utter fascination as an outraged breath sucks sharply into him. “Not that it is any of your business, but I am not a virgin.”

Silence fights for space between us amidst the din of the party for nearly a full, agonizing, hot minute, during which we simply, warily study one another. I think I would gladly pay a million euros to know what he thinks right now.

Finally, his mouth opens. “And you?”

I somehow lost most of the air in my lungs once more. “What about me, sir?”

“Are
you
a virgin?”

I have to give it to him: that was well played and ballsy as all get out. “What an impertinent question. I ought to slap you.”

I inappropriately wonder if women spank him often.

Christ, he’s got a beautiful smirk. “You’re avoiding.”

I mimic his accent in a low voice. “I am twenty-eight years old.”

“Surely there are plenty of twenty-eight year old virgins running amuck in the world.”

Not at this party, they aren’t. Despite the matrimonial nooses looming over every singleton’s head, the sexual escapades planned for this week are already legion. It will be shag central at
La Cuesta Encantada
tonight—myself excluded, of course. “Would virgins be running amuck, though?”

He chuckles, and it is beautiful and unfair and infectious. I bet his mother doesn’t tell him how undesirable it is to be seen and heard laughing.

I itch to take a step back but fear it would illustrate just how affected I am by this prince. Instead, my spine straightens while my chin lifts upward in order to coolly meet his gaze. “A lady never discusses such tawdry things.”

“Virginal ones might not.”

Oh, oh, I very much like how his amusement so easily manifests in his eyes. I murmur, “Do you know many of these mythical women?”

So much for Parker seeking out champagne—I accept a glass from a passing waiter; Christian does the same. “Mythical twenty-eight year old virgins who run amuck or ones who refuse to discuss sex?”

My shoulders lift and drop as I slowly sip the drink. Bubbles dance their way down my throat and into my stomach, leaving the muscles within to match the foxtrot beat spilling through the speakers.

“I know a lot of women,” he tells me.

“I’m terribly shocked by this.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning exactly what I said before. There is no way you will make it through the week a bachelor. Your mother must have a lengthy list of requests for you already.”

A loud noise sounds nearby; a tray clatters upon the ground. Christian’s attention flits away as he traces the sound to scene, allowing me a few inconspicuous steps back.

On the other side of the pool, a waiter is upon his knees, red faced while sweeping broken glass up with napkins as the royals around him sniff in disdain for him daring to exhibit anything other than unimpeachable behavior in their presences.

“Poor sod,” Christian says quietly. “How much do you want to bet he’ll get sacked over this?”

There is no need to wager. The unfortunate man will most likely be escorted off the premise within the hour.

Christian’s focus is once more on me. “Are you challenging me to a bet?”

I abhor gamblers, so this recent development is comforting to discover. It’s utterly vile to make light of a man losing his job over something so trivial.

My scorn must be evident, because he quickly corrects, “No, not over the waiter. I’ll have Parker look into that shortly and see what can be done to rectify the situation. I meant your claim concerning whether or not I escape the week as a bachelor. It sounded like you were challenging me to a bet.”

Attractive
and
altruistic? Temper notwithstanding, he has returned to being simply too much
too
again in my opinion. Why is he even still here? How has my vulgarity not driven him away yet?

I swallow my pride and purposefully, meaningfully allow my eyes to drift lower. It is the wrong move, because images of this man naked flash throughout my mind. Wonderful. I strain to sound amused. “I am merely stating that men like you do not keep much in their pants.”

That might have been a tad overkill, because I must toss my drink onto the nearby table in order to beat upon his back as he chokes on a gulp of champagne.

His secretary rematerializes, snatching the glass out of the prince’s hand. “Chris! Are you okay?”

Christian stops coughing and jerks away from me. “I’m fine,” he insists, careful to ensure our eyes don’t meet. Then he quickly fills Parker in on the waiter situation.

Because I have lost my wits and do not wisely use this opportunity to flee like I ought, I ask, “You go by Chris?”

“It’s an acceptable nickname for Christian.” The owner of the name snatches his glass of champagne back, chugging the rest of the drink. Naturally, this promptly sets off another round of coughing.

Parker is now the one to smack Christian’s back, and I am grateful because I most certainly do not need to be touching him again, even if in a life-saving gesture.

“Maybe so,” I murmur as Christian, rapidly turning redder from what surely must be embarrassment more than alcohol down the wrong pipe, shoves his friend’s hand away. “But it doesn’t fit.”

“If I might be so bold to ask, Your Highness, how so?” Parker inquires at the same time Christian wheezes, “What does
that
mean?”

I side skirt the men to claim a chocolate covered strawberry from the dessert table. “Chris is a boring name.”

“I believe you’ve just issued an unforgiveable insult to all the Chrises in the world,” Christian says flatly while Parker struggles to hold in his mirth.

“Of course I haven’t. I simply said Chris is a boring name. Look at Elsa; it is a hopelessly old-fashioned name you find in old women who bake streusel. My parents aged me the moment I came out of the womb.” I point the zebra-striped berry at my sparring partner. “Now that is unforgiveable. You were given a nice name and have elected to make it boring when it doesn’t suit you one bit.”

Too much silence expands between us; I am tricked into looking up at him once more. One of his dark eyebrows arches upward. “Are you saying you don’t find me boring?”

Did I? Oh, bollocks. I
did
, didn’t I? I clear my throat and smile winsomely. “Just because I don’t wish to marry you doesn’t mean I find you boring as a bag of rocks.”

Both of his eyebrows shoot up, as if I informed him grass is blue and sky is green. As if he doesn’t already know he’s interesting. Please. Must I remind him of all the glossies dedicated to his comings and goings?

“When we were children, His Highness was teased quite a bit about his name,” Parker tells me.

I toss the strawberry stem back onto the table; it’s whisked up by a passing waiter in less than a second. “What! Why?”

“I’m named after a religion,” Christian grinds out. “There was Prince Jew. Prince Muslim. Prince Buddhist. Prince Hindu. Prince Zoroastrian. There were lots of choices, you see.”

Another moment I want nothing more than to just laugh and laugh. “How delightful. Now, those nicknames aren’t boring. Sacrilegious, yes, but definitely not boring.”